


Cruel Angles

by prittyspeshul



Series: What Kind of M(en) [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Definite medical inaccuracies, Depictions of injury, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Language, Lots of Vomit, M/M, Mental health or lack thereof, Possible medical inaccuracies, friend fluff?, slow burn on the pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4614153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prittyspeshul/pseuds/prittyspeshul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"His heart, already halfway into his intestines, plummeted all the way to his feet. It took all of his self-control to force himself to read even the snippet his phone displayed. </p>
<p>'Seth—there’s been an accident. Dean and Roman…'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Roman

He had been out late the night before, probably (absolutely) later than he should have been before a traveling day, but it was the first time he’d seen Jamie, Joey, and Kane since all three had disappeared into the quagmire of scouting talent for development, and one drink led to seven, until he was stumbling back to his room smelling more than faintly of a delightful mixture of tequila, gin, and whiskey. He vaguely remembered attempting to take off his shoes, giving up, and then, annoyed at his own drunk failings, angrily ignoring a text and throwing his phone across the room.

He woke up at an hour much earlier than he would have liked to, bile in his mouth, and managed to make it to the bathroom before he puked all over himself; he had turned the shower on then, clothes and all, and just laid in the stream for a few minutes until he smelled less like the worst kind of leftovers. He still felt like garbage, but a quick glance at the clock on the microwave (why were they always visible from the bathroom?) told him he had no time to wallow, so he stripped off his wet clothes, tossed them in the trash, and scrubbed the rest of the previous night off himself.

He shrugged into the most comfortable sweats he owned, fighting the urge to ruin these with the rest of the contents of his stomach, when his phone buzzed insistently. He was in zero kind of mood to deal with the rest of humanity, but he dragged himself to the corner where he thought drunk him had lobbed his device, and suddenly his hangover was the least of his problems.

He thumped to the ground, scrolling through an inbox that read like a card for a pay per view: Nikki, Brie, Paige, Jimmy, Dolph, Kevin, Cesaro, Cena; all of the messages read various forms of “I’m so sorry” that made his throat close up and his already throbbing head pound. The last time he’d gotten this many messages, it had been for Dusty—he choked down another round of vomit, this one not entirely fueled by alcohol, and continued scrolling, trying to banish the anxiety that train of thought induced. Finally, close to the bottom, he found one from Hunter. His heart, already halfway into his intestines, plummeted all the way to his feet. It took all of his self-control to force himself to read even the snippet his phone displayed.

“Seth—there’s been an accident. Dean and Roman…”

He inhaled, head between his knees, shakily, all thoughts of hangover gone for the moment. His entire existence centered on that single line and his thundering heartbeat, his finger hovering in suspended animation over the message. He was breathing hard and fast, one hand clutching at his hair, body curling in on itself as if for protection from what he had just read. His eyes flickered down, desperately seeking some sense of normalcy, some sense of stability in this suddenly fucked-up universe, but the message under Hunter’s, timestamped fifty-five minutes before, made him throw his phone again, this time in his hurry to make sure he reached at least a trash can to lose the little control he had gained over his stomach.

When the retching finally ceased, the shuddering continued, and the wrestler wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, barely acknowledging the tears that were too numerous to have originated solely from the force of the vomit. He flopped onto his back, staring haphazardly into the fluorescent hotel lamp, trying to burn out the image from his phone screen that stubbornly floated in front of his eyes.

 “ **Trip**  
Seth—there’s been an accident. Dean and Roman…”  
  
**Dean**  
Hey dickbasket. Meet up w me n Roman at…”

As soon as he could manage to move without setting off another round of spasms in his gut, he stood, grabbed his keys, and hauled his ass to his car.

 

* * *

 

 

He was rehearsing his entrance into the waiting room over and over again, sitting in his car like a fucking moron, paralyzed with fear of more than just what would happen when he walked in.

It isn’t your place anymore, the nasty little voice in his head whispered, the same nasty little voice that had kept him pinned to his seat for the last twenty minutes, shaking with terror and uncertainty. The dark-haired man groaned and slammed his head forward, banging his forehead into the steering wheel and smashing his forearm clunkily into the vent and radio. It did no good for the headache still throbbing in his temples, but the instant of sharp pain seared into his miasma of indecision and stabbed him with some clarity.

If it were him in that hospital, he knew they would have been inside before the car even stopped.

He closed his eyes, feeling the ever-present and uncomfortably comfortable and familiar guilt wash over him, luxuriating in his own self-pity for a moment, and feeling another layer of guilt fall onto the pile with a crash that may have been his face plunking farther down the wheel to rest on the horn. The physical pain he could handle; that was a realm with which he was intimately familiar. The other kind of pain, the one that danced around the edges of his thoughts and vision and took control of his chest with a frenzied kind of grip that felt like his bones and organs were crushing together and he couldn’t draw the air he needed no matter how much he gulped—he’d rather land a hundred suplexes on his face and then suffer a kick to the groin than deal with that.

Or keep dealing with it, he thought with a sinking heart. He sucked in a breath and sat up, angry now though no particular target, fairly kicking the car door open and lurching to his feet. He’d felt that way for what seemed like interminable hours now and sitting in the car did nothing but encourage the simmering shock and fear into a rolling boil of self-blame, remorse, and absolute panic, which helped no one. He jammed his sunglasses further back on his nose and threw up his sweatshirt’s hood, doing his best to hide both the trademark blonde streak and the rats-nest nature of his uncombed hair.

His confidence lasted the whole way to the emergency room entrance, when both his nausea and his uncertainty reared their ugly heads again. He faltered at the door, one hand on the handle, then decided he had come this far and couldn’t very well slink back to his car now; taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open and walked into a sterile and surprisingly vacant room. It wasn’t austere, but décor was decidedly sparse; two nurses quietly talked over the counter, while a third typed and kept glancing at her coworkers and then at a corner, where a dark figure slumped in a very irregular posture in an attempt at sleep. Seth’s heart skipped twice because he recognized the slump. If he was totally honest with himself, deep in the slimy black hole he called his soul, it had skipped the second time out of disappointment. This person was not who he had wanted to see in the waiting room, because that meant—

He shook his head, regretting when his teeth clicked together and reminded him of his still-very-powerful hangover. Belatedly, he realized that one of the nurses was approaching him, and furthermore he realized that he was still standing stupidly in the doorway. She bumped a chair on her way, and the clatter of metal on metal made Seth cringe and stirred the lightly dozing man in the other row of seats. He bolted upright, wild-eyed, and stared right at Seth, who had to choke back a sudden wave of horrified queasiness at the state of his face.

“Roman,” he murmured, voice hoarse, and took a step toward his friend—his brother—then paused. The Samoan’s expression was unreadable, but then again, there wasn’t much that was left to be read. His face was one giant bruise, a swelling of livid red and blue and purple that spread from his left cheek to his jaw, one eye puffed up and closed, lower lip split and swollen as much as the rest of his cheek. Even the eye on the right side of his face, the one that hadn’t ballooned, was a little puffy and red-rimmed. The man shifted, and his dark hair fell over the mess, but Seth knew the shock and dismay was still written all over his face.

The nurse had paused halfway between the two men, and she cleared her throat to gain attention. “Excuse me, sir, are you here to be admitted?”

His gaze still locked on the seated man, Seth swallowed and shook his head. His throat was still dry and his voice was even more hoarse than it had been when he addressed his friend, but he managed an “I’m here with him.” He would never really be sure after that how he got to Roman’s side, but the next thing he knew he was next to the man he cared about probably more than his own family, stomach churning, head and heart throbbing in unequal rhythm.

A frank “Fuck,” was all he could say, even after a long moment of appraisal; the other made a harsh barking noise that could have been a laugh. Roman’s face looked even worse up close, lacerated and stitched back together, and from the upward angle he had, Seth could see a long, rectangular bruise that started at his neck and slashed down his chest, and he held one of his arms at an awkward 90 degrees to his chest, a wrapped icepack tucked into the crook and held against his ribs by his elbow.

He released a long, shuddering breath and sank down next to his former teammate, burying his face in his hands and retreating into the hoodie for just a second, just a second of dark solitude. The smell of his breath caught in his cupped hands and he gagged, quickly dropping his hood and flopping forward to put his head between his knees. The last thing Roman needed right now was for Seth to hurl all over him. After his nausea had subdued a bit, he became vaguely aware of a soft, hacking laugh next to him, and he turned to see the other man shaking with the force of restraining himself. Seth, despite his undignified position, glared at him, and Roman shrugged helplessly, cutting off his laughter with a sudden hiss of pain.

The thinner man sat up quickly, scrutinizing him. Roman’s hiss subsided, and he began breathing normally again, though he growled quietly when he shifted and put a hand to the icepack. “Fuckin—not doing anything,” he muttered, shifting it sideways and pinning it back against himself with the opposite elbow. The two sat in silence for a while, both digesting the presence of the other.

“Man, what happened?” Seth finally asked, unsure how else to begin. He shifted in his seat, angling more comfortably toward Roman and slinking down in the chair. It was an unconscious defense mechanism, a supporting surface to lean into when he heard what he knew he wouldn’t want to. The Samoan sighed, rubbing his free hand along the bruise on his face, stopping to finger a slice near his jaw. He shifted again with another groan, this time turning the ice pack sideways before tucking it back into the space between his arm and chest.

“I was driving, and I was sober,” he started, voice cautiously flat, “Dean wanted to go to a bar closer to the arena, but we made a wrong turn. Asshole was tipsy and didn’t read the directions on his phone right. Finally straightened ourselves out and we were at a light—the other driver barreled through red, I didn’t have time to do anything, just smashed right into the passenger side—fuck, Seth, I couldn’t do anything!” His voice had risen and gotten shakier with each sentence, until the normally unflappable man was practically in hysterics, gasping for breath between each sentence, good eye glittering shiny with unshed tears. Seth grabbed the hand closest to him and squeezed, not sure what else to do, but apparently it was the right thing because Roman sucked in a breath and squeezed back hard, fighting to gain control once more. In a few moments, he was calm again, calm enough to continue, but his eye was still wet.

“I was on the opposite side, so I didn’t get the brunt of the force. Smacked my head into the window hard enough to crack it, seat belt snapped my collarbone and a couple ribs, but they don’t think I need surgery, and I passed the concussion test.” His speech was picking up pace, and Seth squeezed his hand again, though his grip faltered at the next sentence. “Dean—Dean’s still in surgery. He was in the passenger seat, he took the worst of it, and—fuckin moron didn’t have his seat belt on, he dropped his phone and he was trying to grab it from under the seat—”

A wall of guilt crushed Seth like a knee to the gut and this time it was Roman supporting him, because even though he knew consciously it wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t help but think if I had only answered that text last night… He only realized he was hyperventilating when the big hand of the other wrestler came down on his shoulder, shaking him enough to jolt him back to reality. He gasped in a deep breath, lungs still tight in the vise of self-loathing, and coughed until he tasted bile.

Finally, the fit passed and he turned back to Roman. “H-how long until he’s out?”

The other man’s head shake was far from encouraging. “The nurse said it would be at least a couple more hours, and that was at least three hours ago. They keep telling me to sleep, but every time I close my eyes I just keep seeing the flash and hearing the screech.” Roman turned to Seth, his good eye now watering openly. “Seth—thanks for coming, man. Just… I wasn’t sure if anyone would. Dean’s—a tough dude to get to know. I know he’d… It means a fuckin lot that you’re here.”

Seth felt his own eyes get hot, and he finally let it sink in. His fears had been unfounded, he had no reason to be worried to come here. Roman had—had actually wanted him here, had needed someone at his side who knew Dean as well as he did. Far from hating him for being so busy lately, Roman wanted him here. There was no shame this time when the tears began trickling down his face, and he leaned closer to Roman, sliding his hand farther up to grip his forearm.

“I’ll always come when either of you needs me,” he choked, equal parts gratitude at Roman’s acceptance and fear for Dean in his voice. “You’re my brother, man, and Dean…”

Roman exerted a gentle pressure on his arm, cutting him off and letting him know he didn’t need to continue. He knew well enough what Dean and Seth meant to each other. Seth was almost completely overcome then, but he stuck his jaw out and finished part of his thought, if not the whole thing.

“We’ll always be brothers.”

With a final squeeze, he let go of his brother’s arm and flopped back into his own seat, exhausted already. He cast his eyes over to Roman, and now that the tension was at least a little bit broken, he managed a chuckle.

“Dude, you look like shit,” and Roman flicked his wrist over to punch Seth in the arm.

“You were in a car crash, and I look like shit?"

Their smiles were genuine, if short lived. The banter was a cover for their inner terror--their best friend lay less than 300 feet away, his life literally hanging in the balance. They talked a little bit more, before Roman finally started to doze for real, and Seth settled into a more comfortable position for the long wait. He was going to be here when Dean got out of surgery, and—and what? He really wasn’t sure, but he was sure as hell going to be here for him.

This time. 


	2. Irony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Seth started to laugh, softly, quietly, because it was too ironic, too much like Dean to take a jab and make it literal even if it wasn’t entirely his choice, and Roman was relieved for a moment..."

“A punctured lung isn’t the end of the world,” Roman said, failing to sound either soothing or convincing, “It just sounds scary.”

Seth responded by slumping further in his seat, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes until it hurt. It had been fifteen minutes since an exhausted doctor, fresh from the operating room, had emerged and delivered the verdict on their friend’s condition: severe head trauma, including glass in his right eye; splintered bones in his right arm and a crushed one in his wrist; some serious bruising of muscles in his legs; and, finally and most seriously, a collapsed lung, due to puncture from a cracked rib (one of several, “but luckily the only one to perforate,” and Seth had never wanted to question someone’s definition of luck more).

The only good news was that he was finally out of surgery and resting comfortably, so in a short while they would be allowed to see him. That may have actually been the worst part, he reflected, because as badly as he wanted to see Dean, if he looked anything like Roman (and the little voice assured him that he would most certainly look worse) he didn’t know how he would react. The doctor’s news had set off a trigger of both relief and a new kind of terror, the kind that reminded him that he had no fucking clue what he was going to say to his—friend didn’t seem strong enough, but brother wasn’t right either. It was something between. Or above. All he knew was that in the moments this morning that he thought he may have lost both of them, he was desolate—but when he saw Roman in the waiting room, his chest had constricted in an awful way, and if he had a choice, as much as he cared about Roman and as godawful shape as he was in, he would have traded his injured stability in a heartbeat for the fate of the man who hung in the balance.

This realization triggered an entirely new wave of guilt and confusion that threatened to suffocate him in its gloriously dismal depths (was he really that horrendous a person), and finally sitting still and drowning in his own self-pity was too much. He practically jumped to his feet, startling the pensive Roman, and jerked his hand vaguely toward the sign that indicated vending machines. “I’m hungry,” he lied, scratching his jaw, and headed off in search of whatever packaged garbage this hospital called food, and the Samoan threw a request for something the distance mangled.

He turned back, ostensibly to request a clarification, but the reply lodged in his throat. Though Roman was one of the biggest and strongest men he knew (which was saying something, considering that he spent time with Kane and Big Show semi-regularly), sitting there, surrounded by a sea of empty chairs in a quiet emergency room, bandaged and stitched and bruised, he looked tiny, insignificant, and disturbingly fragile, as though if Seth rounded the corner he would disintegrate, shatter into a thousand pieces and disappear. The dark-haired wrestler’s injured face was contorted in confusion, which only added to the eerie illusion, and he could feel his finally calm stomach starting to rebel again. He practically sprinted toward the vending machines to bury his shame in a garbage can, heaving again and again until his eyes and nose ran but bringing nothing up.

He sank down, whole body trembling, and sucked in too much air, throwing back his hood to try to calm the flush in his face and the dizzy pulsing of the blood rushing to his head. What the fuck is wrong with me, he wondered, closing his eyes and swallowing hard against the taste of bile still sticky in his mouth. He had worked through the worst of the hangover earlier that morning, sleeping in fits and starts until his eyes didn’t smart at the corners and the pounding in his skull reduced to a minor irritant. This was just him being weak.

 He was across from the doors that lead into the actual rooms of the emergency room, and he wondered at the sadistic tendencies of hospital builders; however, there was a soft, steady beeping from beyond the threshold, and he assumed it issued from the machines attached to patients. It may have been macabre, but the steady nature of the “blip… blip… blip’s” was soothing, and it finally lulled him back into something that resembled normal functions. After too long, he remembered he was supposed to be on an errand and got shakily to his feet, stuffing several bills at random into the machine and punching numbers until he had fistfuls of junk food and two bottles of water. The tension of the morning, coupled with the roiling emotions he felt about himself and Dean, had left him far from hungry, but eating was mechanical, something that offered comfort in its familiarity. And logically, the other man had to be ravenous; he probably hadn’t eaten since this time the day before. He was strange about eating before shows. They both were. But afterwards, oh, man, could they ever eat; a warm flush of memories of the three of them, laughing, Dean cramming toast and eggs and bacon and whatever he and Roman didn’t finish into his mouth, Dean stealing his leftovers from the fridge and giving him those ridiculous puppy dog eyes when Seth gave him hell about it, Roman teasing them about being an old married couple and the way Dean had gotten suddenly defensive, going redder than Seth had thought possible, and he could feel the heat in his own face—

The sudden, angry screaming of an alarm rose beyond the doors at his back, ripping him from his reverie, and an unnerving chill crawled along his scalp and raised goosebumps on his arms. It was more than the suddenness of the noise that frightened him; his heart was in his throat, and he had the most disturbing sense that those machines were from the body that belonged to him behind those doors. The wrestler shook his head, cautiously rearranging the snacks to carry them better, because of course he was overreacting, but then suddenly a throng of nurses and doctors were rushing towards those doors, and the snippets he caught of dialogue made his heart climb even further into his throat: “…heart rate spiking… lung filling with fluid… already collapsed… need to switch to a tube… he’s going to go into cardiac arrest… need a tube for the chest, right now--” and then, for just a second, the sudden, shocking silence of a flatline, before the doors finally swung shut again, but Seth could still hear the hiss, it was inside his head, and it was filling his entire body up, and how he hit his knees he didn’t know, but he was screaming, because it was Dean, goddamnit, it was Dean back there, his Dean, he was fucking dying, and Seth had never told him, had never thought there wouldn’t be another day to do it but now there wasn’t and there wouldn’t ever be and tears were pouring down his face and he was still screaming, voice raw and bloody, when Roman appeared around the corner, eye wild and panicked because he recognized that scream as the sound his heart had made the moment the other car had struck his last night, his own face ugly with fear reflected at him in the mirror, and for a moment green and brown met, and Seth reached for him, like a child, like he had always done, looking for the big brother, and Roman sank down, grabbing him with his one good arm and crushing their bodies together in a desperate bid to make what they both knew go away.   

“It’s him,” Seth keened, sobbing more desperately than he had ever dared in front of the other before, but what did it matter now, Dean was gone, Dean was dead, Dean was—a shudder wracked his body and he sank, exhausted, too overcome to continue to support the emotional outburst. There was nothing left. Sobs, dry and awful and body-wrenching, shook the two of them, intermittently as Seth continued, “I didn’t even answer his text last night, Roman… I couldn’t… fucking talk to him… didn’t even say no, or goodnight, or… anything… god… Dean… what was the last thing I said to you? What was the last thing—”

Roman shook his head, not ready yet to give up on either of his teammates, ready literally to walk to the gates of hell—emotional or metaphysical—and drag them both back from the brink, and Seth is wholeheartedly glad that Roman is here or he knows he would dissolve. He pressed his face into the familiar warmth of a familiar shoulder and inhaled, shakily, once, twice, counting five things he can see, four things he can feel, three things he can hear, two things he can smell, because even though he knows the pain and spiraling isn’t because of his environment he can’t stand to do nothing and keep falling apart. He gripped his phone, closing his eyes and swallowing the waves of nausea that threaten to unseat him, dimly aware of the painfully thudding heart just under his temple, and the way his shoulder is moving and the way a soft voice on the verge of breaking is saying his name, over and over again in a plea.

He couldn’t remember what his last words to Dean Ambrose had been, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at the text messages. Even if he checked, he didn’t remember the last time he had actually hung out with his former teammates, busy as they had all been with their own meteoric paths, so he didn’t imagine they would be of much use anyway. Guilt tugged at him for a moment before fading into the cesspool of violence in his chest, just another jagged shard that made it tough to breathe, just another one of many. What right did he even have to feel guilty? What right did he have to be here, intruding on Roman’s grief, drawing comfort from him? When was the last time he had legitimately spent time with either of the men he once called brothers, outside of the ring?

Oh god. The ring. He and Dean had worked a show, the night before, a grudge match, a dark match that was thrown together at the last minute because of some jobber injuries. That was the last time he had seen Dean, flying around the ring, hurling insults at him.

Insults. Seth felt sick again, sick deep down to his toes, because now he remembered the last thing he’d said to him.    

_They were dancing, as Dean liked to joke, skirting each other like well-practiced partners because, frankly, that’s what they were. They worked together astonishingly well, always had, and so after his heel turn, a rivalry was only natural: it built on the beauty of their chemistry and the flawlessness of his betrayal and their fundamental link. As good as Roman was in the ring, something about working with Dean brought out the best in both of them. After beating and being beaten bloody and nearly senseless time after time, neither could really put a word to the way they felt in the ring with each other; but their Samoan brother always had the strangest smile on his face when they worked together, and he never gave them a straight answer when they asked him why._

_The audience was lapping it up, cheering Dean’s every move, booing each of his, and the fuel of a great crowd and the comfort of working together spurred them to greater and greater heights, until they were spitting insults that may as well have been acid._

_“We’d better finish this soon, pretty boy, you’re overdue for a ball massage in the Authority’s office! Hunter must be getting pretty antsy!”_

_Seth nearly broke at that, biting the inside of his cheek hard to keep his composure. Instead, he hurled another punch, knocking him to his knees and allowing him to execute a pedigree. Not really doing much to dispel the accuracy of Dean’s last insult, really, but those were the spots they had worked out. As the other lay in the center of the ring, he kicked him in the ribs, leaning closer to spit, “You’re overdue to get back to the car wreck of a life you live.”_

Seth started to laugh, softly, quietly, because it was too ironic, too much like Dean to take a jab and make it literal even if it wasn’t entirely his choice, and Roman was relieved for a moment, because it was something, a response at least. Then the laughter became hysterical, rising in pitch until he’s screaming, and for the second time in less than twelve hours, the Samoan watches one of his closest friends pulled away from him in pain he can’t understand, remaining numbly sitting on the floor while nurses fight to inject something into Seth until he’s finally, blessedly quiet.

He stayed there even after they took Seth away, sequestering him in one of the free rooms, slumped forlornly. He has nothing left, nothing to give the doctors when they come looking for him with news about Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this beast decided it didn't want to be a two-parter anymore. I'm thinking probably 3? Hopefully 3? 
> 
> More language than last time, also featuring: Seth's increasingly tenuous grip on sanity. Also, the return of vomit. I don't know why Seth is such a mess in my head. 
> 
> I did a bit of research on injuries that could be sustained in a car accident, but of course I am not an expert. Bonus points if you recognize what happened to Dean in the recovery room, though. 
> 
> Further bonus points if you can spot the Princess Bride reference.


	3. Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "... warm callused hands stopped him, held him down, fingers curling with his, and it was only then that he realized he was dangerously close to hyperventilating and didn’t have an explanation as to why, just a vague unpleasant looming feeling of dread that he was still missing something..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to elohelkae for commenting. Thank you so much.

Seth had never really liked swimming. He found the weightlessness of the water disorienting, frightening; and, growing up in Iowa, he didn’t really have a practical reason to develop strong skills. The first time he saw the ocean—in his career at FCW, alone, early in the morning—he had almost had a panic attack in terror of being confronted by _that much water_.

However, he especially did not like swimming when it felt like his head was wrapped in a towel and his limbs felt like bricks and, most disturbingly, his body seemed entirely dry. There was a niggling little whisper in the back of his consciousness, something that sounded vaguely like something he should understand and maybe listen to, but he pushed the sound away to be dealt with after he found out where he was. Experimentally, he wiggled the toes of one foot, then the other, and he had something else puzzling to add to the list of Things That Make It Seem As Though I May Not, In Fact, Be Underwater: he was still wearing shoes. He was still wearing all his clothes, actually; he could feel a weird lump under his head where the hood of his sweater had bunched strangely, and there was a decided itch under the fabric of his jeans over one knee. He tried, unsuccessfully, to move to scratch the itch, but his arm was weirdly heavy and held back by some Thing, and the niggling little whisper grew to a much larger whisper, and he shook his head no, because he didn’t want to respond to that sound, because that sound meant something, and even though he could conceivably be drowning, he was really comfortable right now, except for the itch and the lump.

He focused on being comfortable for a moment, because there was something wrong and bad about being so content right now, but the concept kept eluding his grasp somehow, dancing outside the ring of his capabilities of forming thoughts, and that damn sound just kept going, a little more insistent, and that was almost more annoying than the itch and the lump and the thought. He inhaled (definitive proof he was not in water, really), focusing all of his cerebral efforts on the sound, because if he took care of the big annoyance the little ones would be easier to master. It was definitely a voice, he finally decided, and it sounded familiar, deep and velvety and almost syrupy, but a little sad too, and maybe a little hoarse. He thought he should understand the things the voice kept saying, so he focused on that next.

“—Seth—, man, wake up. Please. Seth, I can’t—I can’t do this alone. They said you should be coming up soon. Can you hear me? Seth?”

Seth. That meant him. He was Seth. Right?  Yes. Yes, he was Seth, and the voice was—someone—

“Roman,” and he was surprised at his own rapidly improving aptitudes. The voice sighed, shaky but relieved, and finally stopped; a soft beeping, steady, oozed in to fill the silence. A weight descended next to him. He was lying flat, feet elevated a bit, and the weight was spread out next to him, almost like he was on a bed. But why was he on a bed? He tried to focus on what could have happened to put him in a bed, but the last thing he really remembered was coming back from the bar last night, and that didn’t explain the antiseptic tang in the air or why Roman of all people was here and sounded so vaguely panicked or why it was so god damn bright.

He lifted a hand to his face (a Thing dangled from his wrist, the Thing that had made it so hard to itch his knee earlier, but he didn’t have enough spare mental capacity to divert to that now) and scrubbed at his jaw, moving to tousle his sweaty-damp hair off his forehead before finally opening his eyes to a single dizzyingly close grey one. “Fucking Christmas, Rome,” he screeched, backing up over sheets that crinkled and hitting his tailbone against what was unmistakably a rail on the edge of the bed.

So, they were definitely not at the hotel, then.

He rolled over after cautiously pulling his ass away from the edge and the cold metal rail, staring unblinking for a moment into the unpleasantly harsh fluorescent lighting. His arm rested against a warm expanse of softness (with the exception of a single very cold spot) that he identified as the man who had scared the bejesus out of him a few seconds before. His mental faculties were still slowly surfacing, crawling out of the gullies and crevices where they had retreated, and the wrestler felt like something very important was missing, reluctant to return. He moved to look left, toward the window; there was a divider that was pulled and obscured the other half of the room, and he could just make out the buzz of some machines (so they weren’t alone; he felt a little bad for his scream earlier) before he turned his gaze on the other wrestler, noting for the first time from this new advantage of distance that he looked like absolute hell, face swollen to the point of closing one eye, bruised, small cuts lining his arms where he could see (and scratchy bits where their skin pressed together that he assumed were more), and he released a slow, whistling breath.

He remember then suddenly that they were in a hospital, and he should have been very proud of himself for finally solving this great mystery, but the discovery only raised more questions for the prone man because try as he might he couldn’t remember _why_. First of all, if Roman looked that bad and _he_ was the one in the bed, what the fuck did his face look like? He felt fine, but—panicked hands roamed the expanse of his face and neck, finding no blemish, but that annoying thing on his one wrist was limiting his movements, and he let out a growl of frustration. Roman chuckled humorlessly beside him. He turned to give the other man his patented side-eye from hell, but something in the Samoan’s face froze him.

“Fighting your IV?” Seth’s head snapped around to his other side, where there was, in fact, a drip with a cord that extended to the Very Irritating Thing on his wrist. He exploited this new bit of information by promptly trying to remove it, first with fumbling fingers and then with his teeth, but warm callused hands stopped him, held him down, fingers curling with his, and it was only then that he realized he was dangerously close to hyperventilating and didn’t have an explanation as to why, just a vague unpleasant looming feeling of dread that he was still missing something, and he turned to Roman again, desperately trying to find what he was looking for in the man’s good eye, in the cautiously held lines of his jaw, in the tiny tremors of the corners of his mouth.

There was a split-second where the anguish in Roman’s expression didn’t make sense, and then it was all flooding back to him, a crashing whirlwind of agony and chest-tightening mind-numbing all-encompassing _loss_ because—

“Dean,” he breathed, and it was a sob, and he closed his eyes involuntarily, sinking again into the maelstrom that had consumed him before, but then Roman shook him once, twice, _hard_ , jarring his teeth together and bringing him sharply back to the present. Their gazes locked, agony of different kinds written openly in both faces. More than anything else, that held him there, because Roman had always been the rock, the one who kept everyone else together when they were doing their best to crumble. He would have walked to the figurative gates of Hell for everyone he loved (had done it, in fact, a few times for both of his Shield brothers) and done it with a stone-cold stare; seeing Roman falter this way scared him more than hearing about the accident. The Samoan could handle a simple wrecked car. That was just wounded flesh. Seth knew he was at a loss in the emotional arena, couldn’t handle losing both brothers in one day, would lose himself in that void and crack under the pressure he exerted on himself (because no one was crueler to Roman than he was to himself).     

“Don’t do this, Seth,” and Roman’s voice was crystal, hairline fractures forming under the grip on himself he was maintaining through sheer force of will, and his grip on Seth’s hands was too hard, but he was very, very close to losing control; Seth watched the war rage on his face, from extremes of suffering and guilt to abjectly terrifying, directionless fury (and until he had met his Shield brothers he thought he was the only one who was in constant danger of descending into madness, swept away by the force of his own emotions, but time and again Roman and Dean proved him wrong and wrong and wrong), and he read as if it were written on his forehead how much guilt and torment he had put himself through because he had been driving, the crushing weight of so much blame writing itself indelibly into nooks and crannies where it could hide and fester and maim, and the desperate need for someone, anyone to cling to; and Seth went very still at first, then rolled over, slowly, cautiously, and slipped one of his hands from the larger man’s trembling grasp and draped his arm over his shoulder, pulling himself carefully closer until his forehead was resting against a warm shoulder and his hand was buried in dark hair.

“I’m here,” he managed, answering the silent plea, and the body beneath his arm went painfully rigid for several seconds and then it was as though floodgates had burst; Roman practically melted into the bed, into the comfort, his face was buried in the mattress, sheet fisted so tightly in his hands it crunched, every spasmodic shake of his shoulders stabbing Seth in the gut. He was silent, absently curling and uncurling his fingers against the other man’s neck, letting him let go in the way he only did with—he swallowed quickly, forcing the name through his mind—his brothers. Another wave of guilt washed over him, needy curls of foam grabbing at him and tugging, tugging, and he wanted so badly to give in, but he was slowly growing used to the weight, and Roman needed him right now. He didn’t have the luxury of drowning in his own inadequacy. After long moments, the shaking slowed and finally, blessedly, stopped; they remained as they were, closer than they’d been in months, silently sharing in the suffering, interrupted only by the steady beep of the other patient’s heart.

“Okay?” And it was far, far too little for what rested between them, and both knew they were far from any sort of okay, but it was the only word that could even dare to approach the chasm, and it was enough for right now.

Suddenly, they became aware of a nurse in the doorway, her eyes a little too shiny, her tone as she spoke a little too bright. “Glad to see you’re finally awake. Your friend was very concerned about you earlier.”

Seth managed a quick croaking laugh, sitting up and barely catching the “cease and desist” expression on Roman’s face. The nurse, however, didn’t, and so blithely continued, “When he wakes up again, he’ll be very happy to know you’re here.”

He was confused for several seconds, puzzling through the sentence, because he _had_ just woken up and Roman was right here, until he finally caught her meaning, and all the air in the room disappeared and the world began to spin. He reached for the edge of the bed to steady himself and instead found an arm attached to an expression that begged _don’t_. He never was any good at listening to his friends, especially when their advice made sense.

“I’m not sure I understand,” and his voice was shockingly firm, belying the way his white knuckles trembled, “which friend you’re talking about.”

The nurse, turning from counting pills into a cup, suddenly confronted with the stark paleness of one man clinging to the angry grimace of a second, hesitated for a second, before smoothly indicating the curtain behind him with her free hand and continuing, “Your other friend. Mr. Ambrose.”

If Roman hadn’t been there to catch him, he would have cracked his skull open on the floor when he collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay; I had most of it written for a while, but I'm still not entirely satisfied with the ending. However, I figured I had kept readers waiting long enough. 
> 
> Also I am well aware that hospitals really don't work that way, but conveniently for our damaged darlings they do in this world. 
> 
> The beginning of this chapter is also not intended to be a comment on the actual Seth Rollins' attitude on swimming or water in general.
> 
> (and remember when I said 3 parts? lol. ;-;)
> 
> (Edit: I have no idea why chapter one's notes are displaying at the end of this chapter. I'm sorry.)


	4. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Seth swallowed, hard, once, twice, belaboring his choice, deliberately keeping his eyes on the heart rate that steadily passed on one of the many screens. Quickly, unbidden, memories flashed through his mind..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to SilentDarkness for commenting. I hope you enjoy it.

He shifted in the chair experimentally, freezing when the plastic made a hideous creak and throwing a glance to his side, where another body rested in another awful hospital chair. When Roman just shifted himself and made a noise that more fearful men would shrink from calling a “gurgle,” Seth relaxed, easing himself to his feet and massaging a sore spot on his thigh. The day had been a parade of one terribly uncomfortable resting place after another, but he had actually gotten some sleep (if not much) the night before, so he wasn’t particularly surprised that the other man hadn’t so much as blinked. He had to be exhausted.

The light from the window was starting to dim, so it had to be close to the end of visiting hours. Dean hadn’t so much as stirred behind his curtain, and after the vivid description of his injuries given to them by the doctor, neither really had the stomach to check on him. Nurses had bustled in and out at various intervals, checking on all of them, offering food, beverage, and pain medication (all of which were politely declined, with a slightly longer deliberation on the pain meds), before ducking behind the fabric and spending time there. Every time they emerged, however, they were just as cheerful as before, one of them even flashing a thumbs-up. Seth’s courage deserted him every time he tried to ask about his condition—something about the name just melted his tongue to the roof of his mouth—and Roman had already fallen asleep by then and he was loathe to wake him, so he settled for shifting uneasily and trying to develop x-ray vision.

Sitting still for the better part of sixteen hours had taken a toll on his nerves. He had usually hit the gym for at least an hour by now, or he was gearing up for a show, or he was driving, at least doing somedamnthing besides sitting completely still with unease crawling along his scalp and fingers trembling.

He wanted to hit something. It was an urge that swelled so quickly he was overwhelmed, and the trembling in his arms morphed into quaking; he needed to release this extra energy somewhere, he needed release from the tension that had lined his ribcage since six AM, _he wanted to hit something_. He was a caged animal, trapped by his own impotence and prodded by his anxiety, and he needed to do something before he sank back into the ever-ready whirlpool of guilt and grief and rage, but there was nothing to do in this goddamn hospital and nowhere to escape. He cast his gaze around the room, well-aware that he would appear manic at best (and really, he may as well have been, at this point) to anyone who passed by, and the first thing that caught his eye was the curtain.

That fucking curtain. He had no conscious reason for the flush of hatred that bloomed in his gut (or maybe he did but he really didn’t want to put words to it, not right now), but he was going to destroy it. He grabbed it, jerked it, pummeled it like a child throwing a tantrum; he _was_ a child throwing a tantrum, desperately angry at his own inability to help the people he cared about, violently angry at his failure to be there for them when they needed him when they had done nothing but support him and show up for him, over and over again; and there were tears in his eyes, and the rage deserted him as quickly as it had come, because in his outburst he had moved the curtain just enough to see into the area behind it, and he wasn’t sure the spasms of his chest qualified as breathing anymore.  

Too many machines crowded the small space; there was barely enough room for the bed. And the bed… Seth swallowed, hard, once, twice, belaboring his choice, deliberately keeping his eyes on the heart rate that steadily passed on one of the many screens. Quickly, unbidden, memories flashed through his mind: Dean dancing backstage after an appearance, one of the early ones, eyes alight; Dean laughing like a hyena at some stupid joke Roman had made, nearly snorting soda out of his nose in the back seat of the car; Dean looking grim and serious as they sat in a hotel room, nursing him through a panic attack, a flu, a bad mood (he was always there with whatever Seth needed, an ear, a hand on his shoulder, a bear hug, a soft word, a boozy smile); and oh god Dean smiling; only Dean; just Dean; Dean… He choked back a sob, _god, why_ , finally allowing himself to look down at the bed.

His first thought was that he didn’t look as terrible as he’d expected.

His second thought was that he should find a trash can.

He steadied himself with the curtain, burying his face in the astringent fabric, sucking in deep lungfuls of bleach smell and air until he was more certain he wasn’t going to throw up or collapse. Once the quivering in his arms stopped—and only then—did he allow himself another glance at the man in the bed, taking in the bandage that swathed his head and half of his face, hiding mottled, ugly bruises that made his chest tight; the surprisingly slim cast that decorated his right arm from shoulder to fingertips; the clearly identifiable imprint of a gear shift on his left arm, laid out in relief of purple and blue and red. He was propped semi-upright, and a blanket pooled around his hips and covered his legs. His breathing was steady, his eyes were closed, and some of that damn wispy hair was still in his face, and Seth wanted to laugh, but he concentrated on breathing, in and out through his nose, pushing back the black that crept in around the edges of his vision, because he was damned if he was going to pass out again. Dean was alive. Dean was alive and _right there_.

He didn’t realize he had moved until he was next to the bed, and he didn’t realize he was reaching out until he felt the warmth of Dean’s forehead, brushed those stupid almost blonde wisps out of his closed eyes, rested his knuckles for a heartbeat’s reassurance against his warm, stubbly jaw. He let out a slow, soft breath, drawing his hand back and holding it to himself. Dean was alive. He was alive and receiving good medical care and safe. Dean was alive.

His knees buckled unexpectedly, and he caught himself noisily on the bedrail halfway down. His eyes were hot and swimming, his heart was pounding, and his throat was raw and tight, like he had fallen asleep with his mouth open. Dean was alive—so why did he feel like this? Why did seeing him in this hospital bed, unresponsive, make him crumble? _Because you could have lost him, because you almost lost him, because you **did** lose him, for those seconds_ —he’d come up for the second time, when he’d found out Dean was still alive, midway through the nurse’s explanation to Roman of what had happened in the recovery room. His deflated lung had filled with fluid, making it more difficult for his already taxed body to breathe, and his respiratory system had momentarily failed and triggered a panic response. Because knowing all of that made them feel so much better about their friend’s death, however temporary.

He pressed his forehead to the cool metal of the rail, absently reaching forward and linking his fingers with the hand spread out on the bed before him. The warmth was reassuring, but still—for those minutes, Dean had been dead, and that shook Seth in a way he couldn’t—didn’t want to—admit.

Even after the Shield had “broken up” in the eyes of the public, after Seth had made his intentions toward the title known, the three of them had still worked together pretty consistently. There was, of course, the rivalry between Dean and himself, and you couldn’t invite Dean to a party without Roman tagging along. Lately, though, they’d been going separate ways—well, really, he had; he was dealing with the dual-belt, dual-feud thing, and Roman and Dean were pretty much a tag team in everything but name. With the resurrection of the Wyatt family and the third member of that mess of a faction, it was becoming clearer that Shield 2.0 was on the horizon. Without Seth in it. And maybe that’s why he felt this way.

Of course, that was bullshit, and he knew it. It had been written in the contract from the beginning: he was going to end the Shield, and he was going to get the belt. That was how it worked. He didn’t get to whine about losing them as working partners. He didn’t get to be jealous of whoever they brought in to work with. But he was, and he felt like a petulant child. It wasn’t like Dean and Roman were in any way cutting him out of their lives; they routinely asked him to join them for nights out or car trips together, and seeing one or both of their names on his phone lit up his day. However, on darker days, he enjoyed torturing himself imagining the new partnership, imagining himself being written out of the messages and jokes, out of the special way Dean smiled when they were cramped too closely on the buses and the way their hands would wander and sometimes link—

He banged his head on the rail, shivering at the recoil in his jaw. He was being an idiot. Dean was in a hospital bed, for heavens’ sake. Wrestling was on hold for the foreseeable future. Somewhere deep (or maybe not so much) in his mind, he knew he was in the worst kind of denial. It had nothing to do with the Shield replacing him and everything to do with _Dean_ doing so. But it would be pretty tough for Seth to haul his head out of his own ass long enough to acknowledge that.

Unconsciously, he squeezed the hand he held as he pressed his forehead harder into the rail as leverage for standing up.

It took him a moment to realize there was answering pressure.

He nearly cricked his neck when he did realize, wheeling his gaze to the bandaged face, and he didn’t know whether the desperate hope rising in his chest was for the man in the bed to be awake or for him to be asleep.

“Seth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for webMD and basic medical googling. 
> 
> I apologize for the lack of update; it's just weirdly difficult for me to wring this out. I never really know how each chapter is gonna end until it does.


	5. Sedatives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is again dedicated to SilentDarkness for the review. Enjoy some well-deserved Dean.

His eyes were closed.

Seth breathed a sigh of relief (disappointment) because he was in no kind of state to be offering comfort to anyone, let alone to this specific someone right now. But then, the hand cupped in his squeezed again, and he gave a sort of breathy little groaning noise that hit Seth’s spine like a ton of bricks, and again, “Seth,” but this time there was something in the name, something like confusion, and again, “Seth?” It was a definite question, and the man in question held his breath because _no fucking way_ was this happening but _of fucking course_ this was happening.

“Know ‘t’s you. Shitty pine tree hair gunk,” and the raspy voice was thicker than usual and hoarse, raw, and it was the most beautiful sound in the known universe, “always smell… you.” He made a harsh little noise, swallowed in the back of his throat almost before it escaped, as he tried to move, and if Seth didn’t know any goddamn better he would have sworn that noise was a whimper; Dean stilled again, fingers curling limply against the bed, and released a wheezy breath. “Why’m’I… why does it hurt,” and he sucked in a deep breath, shaky, because this was a man who had literally been thrown into a table covered in barbed wire and beaten unconscious with fluorescent light tubes more than once, and he knew exactly how high a dose of pain medication he was on, and if he hurt now… Seth didn’t want to think about the extent of his injuries. “Hurtsss…”

He straightened, shifting his arm and trying to move his hand away to reach for the call button, but Dean made the noise again, the _whimper_ , and slack fingers scrabbled for his. “No don’, don’ go away,” he mumbled, voice heavy and sharp with fear, “pleas’ stay,” and it was a boot to his chest, that desperate rasp, because Seth recognized that tone, and it always preceded a screaming nightmare, kicking legs and wild grabs for anything within reach, wild-eyed panic and thrown punches when he awoke. For the first time, he saw past his own self-fueled panic and realized that Dean was probably not entirely awake, but he was at least aware enough to recognize that Seth was there (was he? Or was he dreaming? Did he want to think about the implications—for either of them—of the idea that Dean, at his most vulnerable, dreamed of Seth?). He paused, breath coming in jerks, staring at the hand coiled under his, staring at the hand as it was pulled away only to flop back and run stiff fingers along his. Watching Dean, the strongest person he knew, fighting shadows was hard for him to bear, and knowing that he was drowning in god-knows-how deep a sedative, trapped in the semi-darkness next to his demons but aware enough to know who was here and further to try to comfort _him_ —it struck something in the hollow of Seth’s breast, and he shrank unsteadily next to the bed, but there was no wavering in him as he caught the hand and ran warm fingers soothingly over the cool skin on the sheets.

“I’m here,” he murmured, voice betraying him, a shade too shaky to be called a croon, and it was so damn funny to him that he was saying those words again, those words he had told Roman only a few hours before only a few feet away; he had not been there, he was never there when it counted. He knew consciously his presence for the accident just would have earned him his own hospital bed, but it was a tougher thing to convince his viscera; the crawling shadows pooled in his brain and accused, delighting in the eerie flash of a cell screen with only two texts on it. His eyes were hot again, burning, but he wasn’t conscious of the tears trickling down his face until he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the damp cool one in the bed, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He felt the brow under his furrow, felt the clumsy push of drug-sloppy muscles as a cheek brushed his, felt the exhaled breath and the firefly patterns of lips moving in untidy time, “You’re---y’re cryin, don’ cry,” a heavy, ungainly lift of linked hands to brush awkwardly at damp cheeks, “why’re you cryin?”

Because you asked me to come and I wasn’t there. Because you died today. Because I’m a fucking moron.

“Seth,” and the voice was suddenly serious, despite the sleepy rasp, and belatedly he realized Dean’s hand was still pressed to his face, knuckles molded into his jaw, felt the flutter of ungodly long eyelashes and for one precious, unbearable second everything disappeared into the unfocused pool of blueblueblue that opened millimeters from him, but he was jerked cruelly back to reality by the fear in the serious voice, “why c’n’t I open my eye?”

He paused for a moment, fingers stilling against the scarred wrist, then absently stroking again, following the bitten lines back to the fleshy heel of the palm. How much should he tell him? How much did he remember? His resolve crumbled as the request was repeated with a taste more desperation.

“You were in a car accident,” Seth decided on honesty, feeling more than seeing the twitches of reaction shockremembrancefear, “and there was some glass in that eye that they had to remove. So it’s bandaged.”

The breaths against his face were quick and panicked, the muscles of the face and mouth moving in spasms, and there was a sudden sharp inhale, and then, “ _Roman_ , oh god, is Roman okay,” and if Seth hadn’t known him for so damn long, hadn’t known exactly how to keep him down, he would be up, hospital equipment be damned, and he pressed his face and shoulder into the body on the bed, trying to pin him firmly but gently while avoiding the lion’s share of his injuries and getting a mouthful of Dean’s neck in the process (he was sticky cool with sweat and tasted like cigarettes and disinfectant and Seth was going to file that away to deal with later, much much later, possibly never, because it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten a taste of Dean and this was so not the place or time to be thinking about that). Lips still flush with his neck, forehead pressed to temple, trembling not entirely from the effort of pinning the weakly thrashing man to the bed, he managed, “Roman is fine. Roman is asleep in a chair about ten feet away. Please calm down, please, Dean.”

At his name, the body stopped thrashing, slumping weakly, and dampness that wasn’t sweat filtered down to his cheek, and he pulled back, watching the man in the bed struggle through his own emotions. Their hands were still linked, fingers less intertwined than tangled, and he felt the weight of the hand heavy between them; it was too easy, this intimacy, too quick, for the guilt that clung to his bones like humidity. But that was how it had always been, easy, smooth, like slipping into a pair of worn jeans or easing onto a bed; Seth knew that words didn’t help him when he was like this, knew what he needed was a steady thing to cleave to until the world around him stopped pitching and heaving, and Dean knew that only words helped him, drew him out of himself and the pitch-black tar of his thoughts, sometimes gently, sometimes by force. That blackness was threatening now, the chasm taunting as he watched the muscles twitch in fingertips, and somehow _he_ knew, and there was a soft, choking laugh, and then, “Am I dead?”

His head snapped up, searching the dark wistfulness of aching stormy blue, fighting back the harsh hissing breaths that would betray him, because no, no, no way was he dealing with that fact that he had just asked that, not after this afternoon, not when he’d never get the scream of that flatline out of his head; he was gripping the hand he held, almost crushing it, and he released with an apologetic murmur, shaking his head but dropping his face, “No, you’re not.”

“Damn, I was k’nd of hopin this was a dream.” He dared to lift his gaze for a moment—blue was closed, head rested back against the pillow with wispy curls fanning around his head like some sort of built-in heavenly glow, and the near-serenity of the pose belied the purplish bruises already dancing out from under the bandage on his face, the cautious, shallow breaths pushed between chapped lips. “M’not this eloquent in real life much. Maybe ‘ts the drugs.”

There was a short, hollow silence, filled with the soft squelchy breathing of the man in the bed, and Seth thought he may have fallen well and truly asleep again. He sank a little bit into his knees, ignoring the cold bite of the linoleum, resting his forehead against the crisp edge of the mattress. Too much, too much was spinning in his brain, in his lungs, in his fingers still gently tracing nonsense patterns on soft inner arm skin; he wanted to abandon his body and run, sprint away, so he didn’t have to deal with the coiled-up tension that had made a home out of his neck in the last few minutes. His breathing was taking on a ragged quality again, too short, too little, but still too much, too much, and he concentrated on his fingertips, tracing well-worn paths on too-familiar skin. Then a sudden, shuddery little breath from Dean had him on his feet again, hovering over the sprawled body, nervously watching the rise and fall of the chest, counting seconds until the molasses exhale from parted lips, and he was well and truly asleep now. It must have just been a momentary spasm, the pressure of normal breathing a strain on his abused lungs, and Seth felt stupid for his overreaction. He was fine, he was fine, he was fine, so why couldn’t he let go of his hand? Dean wasn’t clinging to it any longer; his fingers had fallen, limp, to the bed, upturned, and now he was just tracing shivery little scales the length of them only to fall back and repeat the motions. It was calming to him, this replay of terra au fait, and he could feel the heated havoc pulse of his heart slowing until he may have been able to maintain some normalcy, whatever that was now. He turned to go, finally, reluctantly pulling his hand away from the warmth, and he fought the urge to return immediately to reassure himself that Dean was still there and still breathing. He had almost reached the curtain when he was stopped in his tracks by a soft, plaintive, “Seth…”

Frozen in place, hand outstretched to move the fabric out of his way, he fought a losing battle with himself not to turn around. Dean was still asleep, head now tossed the other direction, hair mussed and crushed where he had been laying on it, a sheen of sweat glistening on his neck and chest. He was beautiful, even injured, especially injured, and a flood of memories swamped the other wrestler, memories of him treating this bleeding scrape or that swollen joint, a recognition of how the easy familiarity with his body had been gained, and heat swelled in his cheeks because he was literally in a hospital bed, had died earlier that day. “Fuck,” he finally muttered, voice rough, and dragged a hand through his (admittedly disgusting) hair as he approached the bed again, hand hovering centimeters from the other body. Why was this so hard?

“Fuck, Dean,” he muttered again, softer in volume but harsher in tone, why do you make this so hard, and he leaned forward, brushing dry lips against his temple, lingering for a second, two, three, at his hairline and breathing in, because even though there was the awful sting of disinfectant there was still the distinct smell of leather and spice and heat that meant _him_ , and then he jerked himself back and practically bolted back to his chair. Roman was stirring, and he could see a nurse outside the door, writing something on the chart, and he rubbed at the corner of his jaw and mumbled, “You’re a fucking idiot,” and he knew he wasn’t talking about the man behind him on the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long-ass wait. I just could not commit anything to paper for this one; I promise I will be quicker with the next chapter.
> 
> Also lol remember that time this was gonna be 3 chapters. Whoops.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel as though Roman's feelings kind of teeter between sadness and rage at all times. 
> 
> There was no pairing in this chapter, but I hope the wangst emanation from Seth can keep you sated until the second chapter drops. I didn't intend to make Seth and Roman as touchy-feely as that in the end bit, but eh. Boys. 
> 
> The title comes from "What Kind of Man" by Florence + the Machine. 
> 
> Also, I apologize for the gratuitous depictions of Seth puking (no I don't).


End file.
